


The Soundless and Profane

by EvilPeaches



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Character Study, Come Marking, Dark, Denial of a lot of things, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Explicit Sexual Content, Guilt, Holding Grudges, Incest, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Power Dynamics, Resentment, Self-Hatred, Shame, Sibling Rivalry, Slice of Life, Some Dubious Themes, Tarrlok and Amon Live, Themes of Dominance, Themes of Suicide Ideation, These Two Are Not Getting Along, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, in exile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilPeaches/pseuds/EvilPeaches
Summary: Tarrlok is bitter and the insidious man that used to be his brother doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘guilt’.Nor, it seems, does he know the meaning ofshame.Or otherwise: Tarrlok fails in exploding their getaway boat and has to live with the consequences.
Relationships: Amon | Noatak & Tarrlok, Amon | Noatak/Tarrlok, Noatak/Tarrlok (Avatar)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 97





	1. Lost and Not Looking to be Found

_“You talk a lot of shit for somebody who’s sorry now” | Euphoria (Acoustic) - Echos_

**  
******

  
When Tarrlok puts on the electric glove, he’s not in a sound state of mind.

If he _had_ been sound of mind, he would have known that the man steering the boat _feels_ such betrayals under his skin. One simply does not pull one over on a prodigy bloodbender. Tarrlok usually knows better.

However, instead of clarity, Tarrlok is enshrouded in this miasma of anger and despair, this knowledge that his own flesh and blood caused such harm to Tarrlok’s beloved Republic City. Stole his bending, with a simple touch against his flesh.

A familiar touch, one that near broke Tarrlok’s heart into shattered glass.

He briefly, _oh so briefly_ , tries ending it. After all, what does he have to live for now? His bending is gone. This man _–because thinking of Amon as his brother is vile_ \-- is another problem entirely

Noatak -- _no, he’s Amon, even without the mask_ \-- is already thinking of how to start over again.

It’s a knife in Tarrlok’s chest, thinking of all the damage Amon would love to cause to some other unsuspecting city. It’s the blade already buried in his chest, knowing that this whole time, his enemy, Amon, is his long-lost _brother_.

After spending decades believing his brother is dead, _this_ happens. Noatak returns, but with a new name and a mask, disguising his fair face. It’s repulsive. Destroying bending? Equalizing everyone against their will? It turns out Noatak became Yakone’s revenge after all.

Tarrlok cannot allow this to go on, even though they’ve escaped the city and the Avatar. The sorrow in his chest is far too great. So, he raises his gloved hand, hovering it over the fuel tank of the boat, blood pressure rising, heart racing, despair and madness on his tongue-

His muscles freeze, bones locking.

Amon is looking at Tarrlok over his shoulder, icy eyes wide with horror. “ _What were you thinking_?!” The words are a maelstrom of power, laced with fury and an uncurrent of visceral hurt. “You could have killed us.”

He leaves the wheel for a moment to yank the glove off of Tarrlok, throwing it and any of the others in the boat into the sea. Hearing no response, Amon grips Tarrlok by the chin forcefully, his older brother guise in full swing. “Answer me.”

When he realizes that his bloodbending still has Tarrlok completely in his thrall, Amon winces and his menacing psychic hold drops away, allowing Tarrlok to speak.

Exhaling hard, despair in the lines of his face, Tarrlok hisses, “I was _trying_ to kill us, if you must know.”

The stunned look on Amon’s face is nearly priceless. Then, he looks vaguely ill.

For once, the older man doesn’t try preaching at Tarrlok, doesn’t try talking down to him. Instead, he goes silent, stepping back to the wheel.

If he’s hurt, then Tarrlok is pleased.  
  


* * *

  
Tarrlok doesn’t want to live his life at Amon's whim.

It seems fate is cruel.  
  


* * *

  
They end up in Fire Nation territory, on one of the islands. Warm, surrounded by water.

Water depresses Tarrlok. Another cruelty, a reminder of what he has lost.

They reside in a decent sized abode by the sea. It’s a beach house, a little too run down for Tarrlok’s tastes, but no one is asking him. Amon is the well-traveled type and it becomes clear that ‘run down’ doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

After a tense week of wondering if the Avatar is going to track them down for revenge, it becomes clear that they aren’t being looked for and Tarrlok is more than happy to disappear from the world. He spends most of his time moping and brooding.

His brother takes care of everything else, the way he always did when they were boys.

This…Amon…mostly avoids Tarrlok. As if giving him space. As if sensing the depths of the wounds inside of Tarrlok’s heart, all caused by him. Sometimes, Tarrlok feels those intense eyes on him, gazing upon him. He wonders if Amon understands the depth of his betrayal, how terribly he’s wronged Tarrlok.

If he had to ruin Tarrlok’s life a second time, why couldn’t he have had the courtesy to let him die while he was at it? Death would be better than this existence, this sham of living. Their days are full of petty comments and cruelties.

A slow death by a thousand paper cuts. Tarrlok isn’t going to forgive and Amon pretends he doesn’t know what he’s guilty of. Oh, he’s _guiltless_ , in fact.

“Can you give it back to me?” Tarrlok is having one of his miserable moments. Shameful and lacking in pride.

There’s that awful twist on Amon’s mouth. A sneer and a smirk, all rolled into one. Eyes knowing. “Give _what_ back to you?”

“My…my bending.”

Amon moves to stands in front of him, enfolding Tarrlok in an embrace that Tarrlok is too weak to reject. Those warm, strong and dangerous hands, trailing down his spine. A ghost of something, a feeling that Tarrlok doesn’t want to acknowledge. “Oh, little brother,” Amon sighs against his ear. “Why would I want to do that?”

Tarrlok goes cold, stiff in his arms.

He hates when this vindictive creature calls him _little brother_.  
  


* * *

  
The weeks pass, full of tension.

Sometimes, Tarrlok wonders if he could slit his own wrists, make crimson lines across his flesh. He’d do it in the sea, where the salt would sting the wounds. He’d relish that pain. Emptying himself into the great sea, never to be full again.

Never to be whole.

“Do you remember what our father was like, before all that bending nonsense of his?” Amon asks it at their dinner table one night, his striking features pristine in the soft light.

He’s very handsome, this man without a scar. A better reflection of Tarrlok, in skill and strength.

And cunning.

This man is _not_ Noatak and Tarrlok doesn’t like when he tries to be.

“Don’t talk about the past like you were there,” Tarrlok interrupts coldly.

It grinds him to pieces, whenever Amon tries to familiarize them with each other, to try and make that connection to their childhood.

“I _was_ there.”

“You are not my brother,” Tarrlok snaps back, bitterness overtaking him.

Amon rolls his eyes in exasperation. When his gaze returns to Tarrlok, it’s with the gaze of a wolf, steady and unyielding. “You can deny it all you want, but you will always be _my_ brother. Time, distance, and death will never change our blood.” He stabs the meat on his plate, medium-rare, and takes a healthy bite as he appraises Tarrlok, watching the sick emotions cross his face with a certain sadistic glee. “I’m still the one who held you at night when the storms were at their worst, in the North. You were too afraid to run to mother, because then you’d have to see our father. He would have called you a coward, wouldn’t he? So instead, you curled up next to _me_.”

Tarrlok shudders.

His brother, who held him at night in a gentle embrace, yet bloodbent him to pieces during the daylight hours, under the watchful gaze of their father. Noatak was very skilled at playing tormentor and savior.

In fact, Tarrlok is sure he relished the role.  
  


* * *

  
He sees Amon outside one evening, just as the sun sets over the ocean. A gentle breeze, silence surrounding them as always. This man who is not quite his brother looks pensive, strangely thoughtful as he stares out at the water.

“What are you scheming now?” What else is there to say that hasn’t already been said at this point? Tarrlok is tired of their existence already. He wonders if he can drink himself unconscious and choke on his own vomit. A shameful death, but one he probably deserves.

A sigh. “It’s odd to be so alone. I’m used to being surrounded by my brothers and sisters. My Equalist ones. I’ve not been alone for years.” A strange yearning is in that tone.

The words give Tarrlok the sensation of being kicked in the gut. His mouth almost opens to say _I’m your brother, you malicious doorknob._ That would be folly, though. He doesn’t want this particular man for a brother, so he shouldn’t be so offended. Instead, he picks a fight, wanting to kill the calm and the silence and the false illusion of peace between them. “Your cause was a criminal sham. A grab for power. You aren’t some saint. All your ‘ _siblings_ ’ used you as an excuse to cause mayhem.”

“As if you were any better, _councilman_.” The word is stated with heavy sarcasm. “You wanted power, seeing as you’d never had it once in your life. I was doing something for the greater good.”

Oh, there is so much wrong with everything Amon just said. Tarrlok doesn’t have the time or the will to pick it all to pieces, but he will do his best. “The greater good? You and your ‘brothers and sisters’ were a pack of criminals. Terrorists. Don’t try to dress yourself up like some holy king. Even the Avatar was afraid of you. You are the object of people’s _nightmares_.”

In a flash, Tarrlok is on his back in the sand, an arm across his throat, pinning him down. Amon is looking down at him, an ugly look in his eye. So much strength, unleashed without warning. “Am I the object of your nightmares, little brother? Seeing as I am _so utterly evil_ to you?”

That’s a loaded question and Tarrlok doesn’t want to examine it. He clenches his jaw shut, unwilling to speak and say something regrettable.

Amon leans down, pressing his mouth to Tarrlok’s ear. “Are you trembling because you’re afraid? Or because-”

Tarrlok sits up sharply and shoves Amon away. Rather, Amon allows him to do so; if Amon wanted, he could keep Tarrlok pinned forever with just a thought. “Enough. My thoughts don’t belong to you. Go back to your _brothers and sisters_ if you miss them so much. Leave me to rot. I care not what you do.” He doesn’t mean to sound jealous and bitter.

The sun dips behind the water, the sky becoming a dark star above them.

“I missed you, you know.” Amon finally looks at Tarrlok, a strange emptiness in his pale gaze. There’s almost a gentle warmth in that raspy, rusty tone of his. Fondness. Lost adoration. It touches his lips, a soft, phantom smile. “When I left home.”

Tarrlok’s stomach twists. “You know, I dislike how you look when you do that.”

“When I do what?”

“When you _lie_ ,” Tarrlok snarls, storming away.  
  


* * *

  
The next day, Tarrlok feels particularly raw over the prior night. When his brother comes out of his room at dawn, Tarrlok sneers, “Oh, you’re still here, then?”

It’s juvenile.

Amon says nothing to him, just goes through the front door, going for his morning run across the beach. Shirtless, his muscles flexing, tanning in the early sunlight. Tarrlok watches him from the front window, a storm of emotions boiling inside of him. Amon will be gone for at least an hour, as he is every morning, now that he thinks Tarrlok won’t try and kill himself.

 _Ha_. As if Amon cares.

Tarrlok showers, taking care of his long hair the best he can. He can still have some pride in himself, even if there is no one to see. He tries not to wallow in despair, mourning what his life could have been. How he’s become trapped here. With the devil, to boot.

The glass door on the shower creaks open and the man-who-is-not-his-brother joins Tarrlok, as if it’s completely natural to do so.

Tarrlok glowers, aghast. “Excuse me. What brand of blind are you? Did you not see the shower is occupied?”

“I saw. I just don’t care.” He’s rubbing soap into his short hair vigorously, veins popping in his forearms, blood flowing heavily from his previous exercise. He washes himself quickly; he never takes a long time like Tarrlok does. 

_Good thing this shower is large,_ Tarrlok thinks mutinously as he resumes washing himself. The rain head nozzle is above them, providing enough water for both. It’s still uncomfortable, knowing the other man is just beside him. Tarrlok doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know where to look, so he stares at the tiles.

“You were wrong last night.”

Washing the conditioner out of his hair, Tarrlok groans. “Must you insist on talking? I like you much better with your mouth shut.”

This doesn’t deter the beast one ounce. “Last night. I wasn’t lying.”

Then, Amon is out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his trim waist, strolling who knows where, leaving Tarrlok staring after him, wondering what that had all been about.  
  


* * *

  
Sometimes, Amon watches Tarrlok.

Other times, Tarrlok watches Amon.

Like two predators, circling each other. Animal instinct is hard to forget, to avoid.

There are nights, like this one, where Tarrlok hates himself more than usual. Nights where all his goals and dreams haunt him, mock him. Every failure on replay in his head. His thoughts won’t stop spinning. He’s not sure how to live with himself; depression and despair have become a noose, holding him in a stranglehold.

The reason for his growing malcontent _isn’t_ sleeping in the room next to Tarrlok’s.

The walls are thin in this beach house. He can hear his brother in the room over, taking himself in hand, the sound of his breath coming hard, bitten off moans and growls. Low, rough.

He wonders if Amon knows. He has to know, the vile mongrel. The aging springs in the bed aren’t quiet.

Tarrlok doesn’t try to imagine what the other man looks like when he does this, doesn’t want to think of those strong, calloused hands clutching at his manhood, stroking hard, fast. Precum dribbling onto his toned belly. The way those muscles of his must flex with each shift, each needful movement.

White teeth, biting at cruel lips, stifling gasps.

After another smothered moan reaches his ears, Tarrlok covers his head with his pillow, wanting to crawl into an early grave, somewhere, anywhere.

Hanging himself could work. He can build a scaffold if need be.  
  


* * *

  
Time passes. Boredom becomes even worse than their animosity towards each other, or whatever it is they feel. Tarrlok takes it upon himself to work on making the front porch more updated, pulling up the rotting boards and replacing them with something more serviceable.

Less moldy and disgusting. It has to be done, considering his foot almost went straight through one night during his drunken stumbling.

Amon doesn’t help, prefers to mock any and all of Tarrlok’s efforts. He comes back from his run on the beach, looking down at Tarrlok with a certain mocking expression. Distinctive baritone drawling, “Still at that, are you?”

The nerve. The lazy bastard. “Here’s a novel idea; you could help. We both live here, you know!”

Amon just waves his words away as he saunters out towards the water, some distance from the house, leaping into the ocean to swim like a fish. The water is his home, in his blood, after all. A hot wash of rage suffuses Tarrlok, full of jealousy. His brother took away his ability to love water the way he used to.

He’ll never feel the ocean in his veins ever again. He’ll never feel it bend to his will.

This is all Amon’s damn fault.

As his stupid not-brother is out there, swimming about, Tarrlok allows his anger fuel his work. He tears through multiple rotted boards with a certain fury, tossing them off into the bushes with snarls of frustration. When he’s putting in place the new boards, he accidently pounds his hand with the hammer stroke.

It’s a flash of red and black across his vision, crushing.

He yells in pain, the sound echoing over the openness of the beach. Fire suffuses his hand, the bruising almost immediate, the pain overtaking all rational thought. It’s swelling massively. He shouldn’t have been working while pissed off. _Stupid, stupid Tarrlok_!

Droplets of wetness fall over him, little sprinkles of chill water. Like diamonds on his flesh. Amon is standing over him, eyes shadowed with something like concern. He’s breathing hard, like he’d sprinted the whole way over.

Maybe he had.

Tarrlok feels his chest tighten as he stares up at the man he doesn’t want to admit is his brother. The man he hates having in his life. He curses him out daily, in fact. In vivid color.

He has strong hands, Amon does. Hands that touched so many. That harmed so many. Hands that took away Tarrok’s very own bending. He hates those hands, the ones that ruined his life.

Those very hands take hold of his as Amon crouches down beside him. Tarrlok feels himself shiver as the healing power of a master waterbender _-no, bloodbender-_ consumes him. Cool and warm all at once, his bending covers Tarrlok, ensnaring him in his care.

The sensations of a distant _worry,_ and the need to _control_ and _possess,_ brush against Tarrlok. Soundless whispers from the man healing Tarrlok with bending, never spoken aloud.

Tarrlok almost wants to laugh like a crazed madman. He’s being healed with bending by a man who wants to eradicate bending.

 _Hypocrite_.

When the pain finally fades into a distant ache, Tarrlok looks at Amon, who looks back silently. Then, he clears his throat, asking Tarrlok huskily, “Is that better, my angry little brother?”

_Little brother._

Oddly, Tarrlok’s stomach tightens at those words. They’re affectionate, yet demeaning all in the same breath. Holding his intense gaze, Tarrlok replies, “Don’t you already know the answer to that question?”

Amon doesn’t let go. “I wouldn’t waste my breath on you if I already knew.” He says it all with an odd expression, one that doesn’t sit well with Tarrlok. There’s too much meaning behind it. It almost convinces Tarrlok that Amon cares about his well-being.

_When they were boys, Noatak would always come running if Tarrlok got hurt. That is, unless Noatak was doing the hurting._

“Well? Answer me.”

“I’ll never be better.” Tarrlok says it carefully, precisely, holding that gaze to make sure his meaning is clear. “And you know why.”

Amon’s face hardens and he drops Tarrlok’s hand like it’s a serpent.


	2. Sins Under the Moon

_The North is a cold, harsh place to live. The winds never sleep and the ocean is ever cold. The people are pleasant, strong-willed and welcoming. Waterbenders. It is here that Yakone has rebuilt his life. Not that anyone knows who he once was. Not even his wife._

_He started anew, tried to forget the past, tried to forget his bitterness and anger. It helps that he’s been blessed with two sons. Noatak, his ambitious eldest. Tarrlok, his absurdly soft-hearted youngest._

_Yakone knows that without a doubt, if anyone were to ask Tarrlok who his best friend is, he would say his brother, Noatak. Though separated by only three years, the pair are very close. If Tarrlok is the weak link with the soft, bleeding heart, then Noatak is the shield and the sword._

_They are not alike, the two boys._

_Yakone finds himself trying to find something he can relate to in Tarrlok, tries to not let his disappointment in the boy show, but it’s so damn hard! The boy cries when he stumbles. He cries when he’s scolded, freezing hells, the boy cries when they hunt their dinner, unable to end the life of their prey cleanly._

_Noatak slits throats and snaps necks like he’s being paid to do it. Yakone admires that. Noatak would have done well inside of Yakone’s former gang. Tarrlok, not so much._

_The boy is impossible. How did such a child come from his loins? It’s exasperating._

_It’s a great joy that both boys turn out to be waterbenders, bloodbenders to boot. Even Tarrlok, who clearly doesn’t have the heart for such things. Even after telling both of his progeny the treacherous tale of the Avatar, Yakone’s youngest is still not invested in becoming a weapon of revenge._

_Noatak is an absolute prodigy. Yakone almost finds himself jealous of his son’s skill with bloodbending. It’s almost effortless for Noatak, to bend others to his will. Terrifying, in a way. He’s cold with his logic, icy and emotionless when committing the act itself._

_His mother grows concerned by the change in her oldest son._

_“Something’s going on with Noatak,” she said to Yakone once. “Something is wrong. It’s in his eyes. I don’t see my kind protector gazing out anymore.”_

_He’d laughed it off, naturally. He’d told her their son was fourteen, becoming a man. She’d replied with an annoying note on Tarrlok, concerned with how withdrawn he, too, had become._

_These things don’t matter to Yakone. He wishes she wouldn’t trouble him with Tarrlok. The boy is weak. He trains him none the less, even though he is a terribly poor reflection of Noatak in every way that matters._

_Noatak is all Yakone could have ever hoped for and more._

_Smiling, Yakone feels the fire of vengeance burning in his chest, keeping him warm in the biting winds. The Avatar will pay. Noatak will crush whatever life form the old Spirit takes next, for Yakone’s eldest son is merciless, unyielding in his command of power._

_The two boys aren’t as close anymore, though Noatak does still protect Tarrlok in small ways. He tries to comfort his sibling with rare smiles that never fully warm his eyes, says all the right things to try and motivate the younger boy. It’s almost as if Noatak knows Tarrlok better than Tarrlok knows himself._

_It’s oddly manipulative, which Yakone finds disturbing and impressive all at once. Sometimes, he wonders if Noatak is manipulating_ him _. He thinks this on the days that Noatak pretends he is less skilled than he is, inspiring Yakone’s wrath._

_It takes Yakone some time to realize that Noatak doesn’t do this because he’s lazy or trying to rebel. No, he does it because it makes Tarrlok believe they are both ‘suffering’ equally. Another cunning manipulation, a way to keep his brother’s waning adoration, even on the days that Noatak bloodbends Tarrlok._

_It’s ingenious, to keep an affection even through great pain._

_Though he’ll never admit it to his sweet wife, the wife that Tarrlok takes after the most, Yakone finds that there are days when even he feels his own skin crawl, meeting the gaze of his eldest son. She’s right, he thinks distantly, something_ has _gone missing.  
  
_

* * *

  
  
He’s always running. _Always_. It's a thing he’s exceedingly good at. Shortly after dawn breaks, when all is still quiet aside from the sound of the waves, Amon is out the door, running across the pale sand.

Swift, silent, the wind in his short dark hair. He has an impressive endurance, able to run incredible distances. Always alone. The way he prefers. He has a militant, mercenary devotion to it.

It leaves Tarrlok wondering what he’s running _from_.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“You are unwell.”

Tarrlok snorts, buttering his bread with a certain vengeance. He finds joy in drawing out the fact that he barely eats his meals these days. The absence of hunger weighs on him. It’s part of the process of mourning, perhaps, mourning the loss of his bending at the hands of the fanatic across the table. It's just a pity that it takes so long to starve to death. “I’m not unwell; I’ve simply lost the will to live.”

An attractive sneer pulls at Amon’s lips. Always his disdain slips through and Tarrlok wonders if he misses having a mask on his face. It’s easier to lie, wearing a mask. “Is that not the definition of unwell?”

Tarrlok hunches over his rather uninspiring meal. His belly is empty, but the desire to eat seems to be missing. It should concern him, but it doesn’t. He’d rather drink. At least drinking empties his mind. “I find I rather don’t care what the definition is.”

“Naturally. You prefer to wallow in your…self-indulgent misery. This needs to end, Tarrlok. I grow weary watching it every day.”

The answer seems so painfully simple. “Then, don’t watch.”  
  
  


* * *

  
In Republic City, Tarrlok knew how to fill the black hole in his chest.

He shed the shame of his past, like a costume, unzipping it from himself. Letting it pool on the ground as he stepped out of it, never looking backwards. No one would know that he was the son of a terrible criminal. No one would know that deep inside, he hides the broken shards of his childhood.

A cruel, hard father. A brother he loved, yet was abandoned by and all the loneliness that came with that. A kind-hearted mother he couldn’t seem to hold together in the aftermath of it all. His life is full of bitter failures. Republic City was his fresh start.

Tarrlok made something of himself. He strove to wipe out all of his father’s old influences in the city. The gangs, if they wouldn’t break, would need to bend to him in the form of political favors. He was ambitious in his pursuit of fame and glory. The cameras loved him and he loved giving them what they desired in the form of his perfect appearance and his inspiring words.

The more he threw himself into the political underbelly of the city, the less he felt alone. The less he felt like something was wrong with him. He was what everyone wanted to be. He was the man that women trembled upon seeing. Men envied him, such as that unfunny fool, Tenzin.

Tarrlok surpassed his father in every way that mattered. Instead of a terrible crime lord, Republic City would have a charismatic political leader, fighting for the betterment of the people. They would be less than pleased to know that he’s a son of Yakone.

He didn’t bloodbend. He loathed it. It reminded him of his brother.

When the Avatar arrived, a young woman in the making, he had seen opportunity. He’d wanted to exploit it, naturally. She held innate power, if not some form of unearned respect from the people. Tarrlok would have been lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to her. Attracted to the power she represented, too.

He botched that relationship up pretty damn well and he wants to punch himself for it. He never meant to make an enemy of her, never wanted to. It seems, Tarrlok is cursed to live a life always wrought with disappointments and missteps.

In the present time, he has so much cause for reflection on all of his actions. He wonders if he had just left with Noatak, all those years ago, perhaps they wouldn’t be here today. Perhaps they would have lived a nice, non-illicit life somewhere else.

Maybe, just maybe, they could have made a home. Somewhere in the Earth Kingdom. Tarrlok could have raised sheep or something, sold their wool. Noatak would have made good business as a hunter, a butcher. Tarrlok thinks on this for a hot minute, face twisting in distaste.

 _Ha_. An honest life for them? Maybe if the sky rained sky bison. Honesty isn’t in their blood. They’re made of lies, the both of them. He’s gone crazier than he thinks if that even sounds like a good idea to him.

No, this is their present. Here, where there are no cameras. No flashing lights for Tarrlok to smile into with all the poise of a cat. No adoring supporters, no cowering gangsters, fearing Tarrlok’s retribution.

There is only Amon, who is starting to feel more and more like Noatak with every passing week. His housemate, who likes to feign his indifference. Aloof, like some lord of a great castle. Which, their beach house is _not_ , by the way, if one must make mention.

“Are we to stay here forever?”

A sigh, soft. That resonant voice tickling Tarrlok’s eardrums. “We could. If you don’t go and die on me.” A brief smirk that Tarrlok can hear. “I never wanted to be parted from you in the first place. You have to believe this by now. I was a stupid, twisted-up boy when I left you. I’m not him.”

Tarrlok isn't impressed by this weak confession, but he does provide a bitter chuckle. “No. You’re not. Now, you’re a damaged man. You should have let me finish the job on that wretched boat.”

“I could have let you. I just didn’t want to.”

“Oh. _Swell_! What is it you _do_ want? You abandoned all your followers after betraying them. Your cause is basically a lie. If the Avatar does decide to track your ass down, you're going to rot in the vilest prison she can find.”

Like a snake coiling up, Amon’s form shifts with an ugly emotion. Perhaps he’s just as bitter as Tarrlok. Perhaps the prodigy doesn’t like being reminded of his own failings. “I spent most of my adult life building up the Equalists. I took no pleasure in lying to them.”

Those dark words, laced with so much regret.

“…and what about the innocent people whose lives you terrorized in your quest for Equalization?” _What about what you did to me? How useless you’ve made me?_

Amon’s mouth twists at that, eyes lighting up with anger. An electric azure with storms of lightning. “I cleansed them of the blight upon this world. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Tarrlok groans. It’s impossible to make him see that he’s done a terrible deed. How can you forgive a man who isn’t truly sorry about a damn thing?

* * *

  
  
“I’m thinking of cutting my hair. There’s no point to it. And, yours seems easy to manage.” Tarrlok quips one day, eyes on Amon’s still wet hair, fresh from the shower.

Quiet, he’s usually a quiet sort, Amon slowly makes his way to where Tarrlok is seated. His hand wraps around the nape of Tarrlok’s neck, just under his long mane of hair. It’s a firm hold that has Tarrlok shivering, unable to meet the arctic eyes staring down at him.

“Don’t.”

Those callused fingers softly caress the nape of his neck before disappearing.

It takes a few moments of staring at the wall before Tarrlok can breathe again.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Tarrlok drinks more than he used to. What else is there to do when you’re trapped with your villainous, terrorist brother? He could leave, he supposes, run away the way Amon does every single day, but where would he go?

This man…he’s the only thing Tarrlok has left in this world and it’s pathetic because Tarrlok doesn’t even _know him_. Not in the way that actually matters.

So, he drinks. He drinks _a lot_. Amon complains, even though he continually provides more from the local village. No one quite knew what Amon looked like under the mask, before, so it’s easy for him to go into town. Tarrlok has heard that Korra isn’t looking to press charges again Tarrlok for the whole kidnapping thing, but regardless, he doesn’t exactly want her to find out where he’s hiding. 

Who he’s hiding with, if that isn’t already _obvious_.

When Tarrlok drinks, he can almost forget his misery and his bad choices. He likes to sit on the porch that he’s mostly fixed, no thanks to that low-rent, rat bastard he lives with, staring out at the sea. Sipping his whiskey or ill-tasting hooch. Becoming fuzzy and terribly full of self-pity.

Why is Noa- _Amon_ so good at ruining Tarrlok’s life?

For all his effort, Tarrlok could have been in charge of Republic City. He was so close, as Councilman. He would have ruled the mostly legal way, would have been a better man than his father ever was. Then, that horrid shrew, Amon, his own wretched brother, just had to appear like a bad omen, taking all the glory from Tarrlok in one foul swoop.

Sniffing, Tarrlok rubs his fingers into his eyes, trying to hold back tears. The ocean waves echo in his ears.

Arms wrap around him from behind, a pair of legs appearing on either side of him. A dark voice, in a just-for-them whisper. “You’re rather maudlin, you know. I remember that about you.”

Oh, yes. Tarrlok is the _King_ of maudlin, if absolutely _nothing_ else.

In fact, he’s maudlin enough to allow a fanatical terrorist to hold him in this manner. Someone send him to the looney bin. He can’t quite decide on wiggling out of the arms encasing him. He should. Very little about this man reminds Tarrlok of his brother. The Noatak he remembers was a fourteen-year old boy, still growing. Slight in frame and stature. He always smelled of fire smoke and fur from their hut.

There’s no doubt he’s being held by a man. It’s hard to imagine the strong arms around him belonging to Noatak, the dangerous hands crossed over Tarrlok’s chest. The body is all wrong, broad and coiled with strength that Tarrlok is not used to feeling wrapped around himself. The voice is too deep, though the occasional rasp in it, the one that isn’t unlike a cats tongue, reminds him faintly of Noatak.

The scent of him is darker, more masculine. Leather and woodsy. Not very watertribe at all.

It strikes Tarrlok then that Amon didn’t live as a man of the watertribe for over two decades. His mannerisms are all wrong, different. How can Tarrlok be expected to view him as a brother when nothing about him, aside from the sensation of his bloodbending grip, is familiar to him?

“Your heart is racing,” Amon continues, despite the silence.

His touch is becoming more commonplace, these days. It’s making Tarrlok’s head spin. It’s shouldn’t. He puts it down to his slow mental deterioration. His need for self-destruction. 

“Stop holding me. I don’t- don’t want your false s-sympathy. I don’t want it.” The slur in his voice is undignified, dammit. He tries to struggle, feeling pathetic and childish.

He can feel the rumble of Amon’s chuckle in his spine. Those iron arms tighten around Tarrlok.

“You don’t need to be nervous around me. You know I won’t harm you, brother.”

 _Brother._ Tarrlok feels dirty, somehow. He struggles against the hold around him, trying to tip out of Amon’s arms, but his limbs are lethargic from booze. “You, ah, seem to be forgetting a c-crucial part of this. You-you’ve already done enough damage, ah, to me.” _Very eloquent, Tarrlok. That sounds quite intelligent._

“For which I apologized,” Amon’s voice sours. The malicious bastard must think he deserves a medal.

 _Ha!_ Tarrlok doesn’t agree, if so. Pulling together all of his strength, he throws them sideways and they both tumble off the side of the wooden porch. He pushes at Amon’s face and wrestles with him briefly until he gets the other man on his back. Somehow. “It was an apology you damn well didn’t mean.”

Almost resignation. “It was what you wanted to hear.”

 _Spirits_ , Tarrlok loathes this man! He backhands him, just to watch that stupidly handsome face whip to the side with the force of the blow. After spitting blood, Amon returns to facing Tarrlok.

Pale eyes stare up at him, familiar. _Noatak_. That broad chest heaves, rising and falling with quick breaths. “Do you feel better now?”

As if he’s a martyr.

They are rarely in this position, with Tarrlok pinning the other man beneath him. For a moment, he stares down at _Noatak_ , those eyes that speak so many private volumes. It’s the alcohol, the disorientation, the strange illusion of power. That has to be the explanation for the way Tarrlok’s groin tightens.

Noatak’s breathing hitches sharply. Those dangerous hands, moving upwards, with unclear intent, eyes strangely black.

This time, Tarrlok is the one who runs away, but he’s not sure what he’s running from.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
They don’t talk about it. Whatever _‘it’_ was.

Tarrlok feels those eyes on him, more than usual. Lingering. As if a physical caress, soft, like spider silk, yet binding.

He doesn’t bring it up, in fact, he pretends he’s forgotten that night. Amon allows it to slide by, but sometimes he drifts too close in this house they share. Sometimes, he brushes against Tarrlok, slinking by effortlessly, making sure that they touch when they have absolutely no reason to.

Their home is shrinking and Tarrlok feels trapped. He tries to ignore the way his heart leaps into his throat.

It’s insanity. It’s sick. It’s this twice cursed, self-imposed exile. Even though Tarrlok has been fighting against the idea that Amon is Noatak, it’s become painfully clear. _This is his brother_. Denials will do him no favors here, not anymore. If he continues to deny that this is his brother, what sin will he commit?

The way they’re currently dancing around each other _is not right_.

And, Tarrlok has no idea how to stop this spiraling hole of damnation they have found themselves careening towards.  
  


* * *

  
“You’ve been going to the village more,” Tarrlok tries teasing. Deflecting from his own problems and mental deficiencies. “Found yourself a girlfriend?”

Unfortunately, the teasing falls flat and Noatak pins him with an unpleasant look. He’s balancing a book in his lap, one ankle at his knee. “Is there a reason why you think I would want to pass this horrid curse down? It would be best if our bloodline ends with us.”

Oh, _Spirits_. This again.

“It was a jest, Noatak. You’re supposed to laugh.”

“I’m not amused. I don’t have time for such meaningless frivolities.” He pauses, then shifts to look back down at his book. “But, if we’re speaking of such things, don’t think I didn’t notice you trying your hand at swindling that inadequate girl into your bed.”

Tarrlok’s mouth shifts and his brow furrows in thought. Inadequate girl? Oh. _Oh._ He gets it. “You’re not talking about Korra, are you?”

“Who else? Is there _someone else_ I should be discussing with you?” Woof. Noatak sounds downright venomous and Tarrlok isn’t seeing why.

“I will admit that I…had designs upon the Avatar,” Tarrlok starts to say. “I was rather fond of her. She had a certain charm. Enthusiastic, strong. Friendly. Her…ah…body was nothing to sneeze at either.”

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” Noatak mutters waspishly under his breath, almost inaudible as he flips the page in his book.

Okay. This attitude is about as amusing as a toad setting itself on fire, croaking and screeching to the tune of its own death.

“You cannot tell me you didn’t have the pick of the litter in your little Equalist army. I’m sure those girls were more than eager to fall on their knees and suck your-”

The fingers on the book spasm wildly and those vicious, wasteland eyes flash back to Tarrlok. “Sure. I could have had anyone. I _did_ have anyone. Women and-” He cuts himself off with a snarl.

Tarrlok busies himself with getting a glass of the good stuff, taking the moment to hide a smirk. _Said too much, brother?_ _Did I push you too far?_ “Well…that’s interesting. Anyone, yeah? That Lieutenant of yours certainly gave a scathing review of you to the papers after you bloodbent him into a wall. Nicely done.”

Noatak gives him a flat glance, a little twist touching his lips. “He had his uses.”

Uses. _Spirits!_ Tarrlok almost feels bad for the terrible Lieutenant that he spent many hours trying to research in his efforts to take down the Equalists. The man had apparently dedicated his entire life to Amon and here he is, simply casting him off as useful.

 _Uses_. “As always, you find ways to twist people up and leave them behind worse than before.” Something about it seems a little odd to Tarrlok. “Are you saying you actually had…intimate relations with the…man…?”

If Tarrlok knows their departed father, he knows the man would be twisting in his grave.

The look sent his way is somehow getting even more flat, yet with an added chill. With a certain tense aggression in the lines of his body, Noatak, replies, “I didn’t say anything of the sort.”

“Oh, my apologies.” Tarrlok couldn’t sound more sarcastic if he tried. “It was only deeply inferred.”

That night, it leaves Tarrlok wondering. Tormented with the idea that his brother may actually have had sexual relations with men, not just women. That perhaps all of the strange interactions they’ve been having as of late aren’t just…coincidence.

Revulsion and sick desire are rampant inside of Tarrlok, making him feel like a monster.  
  


* * *

  
The night it happens, the moon is full.

Tarrlok is in one of his self-pitying moods, pouring hooch down his gullet with greedy abandon. His limbs feel lax, the night air soft around him as he makes his way out to the sea. The water will be cold at this time at night, but it will refresh him.

Stripping down to his simple underthings, he sinks into the water, trying to not feel immense sorrow, surrounded by his favorite element. The moon is his lover, gazing down at him with adoration, shining on all his good sides.

His agony, pain, sorrow, it all floats in the depths of the vast water. He wishes he could bend, aches for it. The absence makes him feel like a large part of him has gone missing. He doesn’t miss the bloodbending, but he misses waterbending.

Tarrlok misses the push and the pull of the water, like a current, a wave. The cold, resilient, ever flowing. He tries to remember what it feels like, to shift the water about his body.

There’s a solemn figure, watching him from the beach. Broad shoulders, arms crossed behind his back, legs spread in a powerful, solid stance. _Noatak_.

Tarrlok feels his skin flush again, even in the chill of the water. “You need something?” He calls it out to be heard over the waves crashing on shore.

Oh, that midnight voice is like a fine chocolate from a southern province. Soft, sibilant. “Just making sure you don’t drown yourself.”

_Is that all, dear brother? Are you making sure that I am not the one to leave you behind this time? Even though I have every reason to?_

Sucking in water, just to spit it out, Tarrlok allows himself to be carried by the rhythm of the sea for a few moments more. Tries to forget the figure waiting for him on the beach. Half hoping that figure leaves him in peace.

He must fade too deeply into time and space, because hands are pulling him from the shallows some undetermined amount of time later. The passing of time is odd when he’s in a state of liquid pacification.

_Have I been saved from myself again?_

Tarrlok finds himself resting on his back, Noatak sitting just beside him on the beach. After a long-suffering sigh, Noatak falls back to rest beside him. Even though Tarrlok is relatively boozed up, still a little lazy of limb and gentle of mind, he catches the way that Noatak matches his breathing to Tarrlok’s. A strangely intimate action, to sync them together.

His brother is a warm beacon beside him, like a burning furnace. Perhaps Tarrlok lingered in the sea for too long, perhaps he allowed his flesh to chill too far. Noatak’s thigh is against his and the feeling is nice. Tarrlok allows his thoughts to drift seamlessly, dreamlike. The heat from his brother’s form is pleasant, like a campfire beside him.

A gentle palm brushes against where Tarrlok’s hand lies in the sand, lax. Not quite holding, but present. Silence continues to pass between them, aside from breath and sea waves.

It’s all fine and civilized until Tarrlok’s manhood swells, blood rushing to it in a strange moment of fiery clarity. Oh, it’s a sweet ache, a needful thing building in his belly. A rush of hunger taking over his nervous system. He’s not felt like this in so long. Craving, wanting to be held and touched. Desiring to thrust into warm heat.

This is not Tarrlok’s doing and as soon as he realizes it, he feels betrayed, even while he’s stricken with want.

“Please don’t,” he begs weakly. Is that husky sound his voice?

“Don’t think about it.” That raspy tone, causing Tarrlok’s belly to twist, groin tightening ever more. “Just…let me-”

“Noatak-”

Fingers wrap around his own, palm to palm on the cool sand. Tight. “ _Shh_ …”

“ _Ohh…_ ”

Things shouldn’t be like this.

A desperate whine slips from Tarrlok’s throat, clawing its way up, past his tongue. He’s throbbing, feeling himself beginning to leak, even in his wet bottoms. His balls are tight, feeling swollen, desiring to be cupped.

He wants to touch himself terribly. He’s never felt so sensitive and he knows that it’s because of the amount of blood being bent to his genitals, despite him not being aroused in the first place. Now, he doesn’t even remember what it’s like to _not be aroused_.

Tarrlok digs his free hand into the sand, trying to keep from debasing himself.

“I d-don’t think this is what father imagined you doing with your power, _brother_.” He stresses the word, trying to knock some sense of morality, of common decency into them both. Trying to stop this from going further, it’s sick, it’s wrong.

He needs this to end so he can convince himself that they are better than animals.

Noatak rolls onto his side so that he’s facing Tarrlok. One of his legs moves over Tarrlok’s thigh, entangling with him. Deepening their illicit connection. “Now is not the time for you to be speaking of the man who sired us, Tarrlok.”

The swelling in Tarrlok’s groin intensifies, sending him into sheer madness, a need taking over him. He wants to rub himself something terribly, to alleviate the desire that’s overtaking him. Tarrlok’s breath comes heavier, he’s panting, feeling flushed. His fingers twitch. He needs-

The monster he lives with grins wide, all flashing white teeth. Perfect. Dangerous. Arousing. Tarrlok almost feels ready to climax, ready to burst. It’s too much, his physiology gone wild. He arches his back slightly, trying to find friction, humping upwards into his own meager clothing.

Noatak is whispering in his ear lowly, “You can tell yourself later that this _wasn’t your fault_. You can blame me for this.”

A hand settles over Tarrlok’s erection and it isn’t his.

“ _Ahh…_ ”

Firm, gripping. Taking measure of his size.

“You like that?”

He’s a gasping mess. Tarrlok hasn’t been this hard in weeks. He’s not had anything to desire, he’s been too out of sorts to even care and now there’s this mockery of want being forced upon him. But, oh, he can’t stop thrusting into that grip, wanting more. “D-don’t do this. It isn’t right and you know it.”

The light fabric covering him is sliding away, exposing his glistening hardness to the moonlight. Swollen head, bulbous. Slick with need, oozing wetly from his slit. Noatak’s fingers are wicked, deft as they work over his bare, turgid flesh.

The slick sounds meeting Tarrlok’s ear shame him even as it causes his stomach to dip with hunger. 

“I am the law here,” Noatak replies swiftly, sounding very much like Amon. He looks only slightly frazzled, eyes shadowed with lust, while Tarrlok feels out of control, shaking with need. “Does this feel so wrong to you?”

He brings Tarrlok’s palm to the front of his own trousers. The bulge there speaks volumes.

“Noa-”

“I want to watch you cum,” his brother utters lowly. “Do you want me to keep touching you?”

 _No! Yes!_ He’s never been touched like this by another man.

Tarrlok wants to fuck something quite terribly. His sack feels heavy, full. He’s not spent himself in so long, but this is not the time to do such a thing. Not with his brother. It’s wrong, so utterly wrong. He should end himself for the next words that slip through his teeth, “I...please…”

That traitorous hand encircles his sex again, pumping him hard, so hard that Tarrlok finds his mouth falling open, hips seeking a rhythm. The man above him grunts thickly, quickly unlacing his own clothing. When their cocks touch, Tarrlok is certain he’s died.

It’s iron heat, pressed together as their cocks rub against each other. Sinful, a dark and cruel pleasure. 

“Rub my slit.”

Tarrlok’s thumb finds it, a little clumsily, but is still rewarded with a shaky gasp. Noatak’s gaze is heavy, half-lidded, teeth in his lower lip. His gaze sweeps over Tarrlok possessively and Tarrlok isn’t sure _anyone_ has ever looked at him like this before.

“Spread your legs a bit more.”

Even as Tarrlok does, he scowls, “Stop demanding things you- _oh_.”

“Yeah,” Noatak is smirking as he crowds ever closer, rubbing his own swollen testicles over Tarrlok’s, still tugging at his weeping erection. “It’s good. You’re being _so good_.”

Tarrlok moans at that, unable to hold onto his sanity. He's never been submissive in the bedroom and he _feels_ submissive now.

Noatak’s taking his time, playing with their arousals, driving Tarrlok to the edge of madness, near begging for release. The waves barely drown out the combined sound of their panting, their bitten off gasps. When Tarrlok can’t hold on any longer, he throws his head back, dumping so much built up cum into his brother’s hand, listening to Noatak coo and kiss at his neck. Oh, Tarrlok’s lost.

Kneeling over him, Noatak pumps himself firmly, with a certain viciousness, hips pumping in a way that nearly has Tarrlok growing firm once more. He watches the flex of Noatak’s abdomen, even as he points his cock downward, spraying his seed onto Tarrlok’s manhood, covering him, milky white and thick.

Marking him with a rusty groan of pleasure that has Tarrlok whining in response.

It makes him feel dirty. Hungry for more. Wanting more.

Afterwards, Noatak leaves him on the beach, sauntering back to their beach home. It takes Tarrlok some time to stand up, feeling dizzy, blood slowly working back towards his brain. Guilt sinks in, like a sickness. They shouldn’t have done that. That shouldn’t have happened.

When he gets inside, he notices that Noatak has left his bedroom door open tonight. An invitation, because it’s usually never open. Tarrlok pretends not to see.

This was a mistake and he can’t pretend it wasn’t.

It can’t happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Okay, don't laugh. I was literally listening to Tove Lo like this whole chapter :D Mostly 'Mateo', 'Shifted' & 'Come Undone', but still, what the hell? Wild. It was fueling my mood and I don't know why, this fic is depressing as it gets LOL.
> 
> Anyway, comments and kudos are loved!! Hope you enjoyed the chapter and hopefully the start of the steam in this chapter was hot for a warm up round ;)


	3. This Feeling is Poison

When Tarrlok wakes the next morning, he feels a sense of dread fall over him in a wave. The front door has clicked shut and he hears the familiar sound of feet moving quickly across sand. His window is open, so he hears water crashing onto sand and it makes his stomach turn.

_…The cold ocean, touching his skin, kissing his flesh, warm fingers pulling him ashore…_

Noatak has left for his morning run and somehow that makes Tarrlok feel hallowed out inside.

He doesn’t want to face his own brother, can’t imagine meeting his pale blue eyes over a cup of tea, over some sandwiches that Tarrlok will be fucked if he eats with any sort of joy. Eating only what he has to, because Noatak will try forcing it down his throat if he doesn’t.

Tarrlok’s head aches a bit. He grumbles, cursing himself for drinking more than he should have once again. He’s dehydrated, limbs like sad noodles as he remains with his eyes tightly closed. Getting out of bed requires energy and he doesn’t have any of that. It requires a desire to _live_ and Tarrlok isn’t sure he has much of that either, if he’s honest.

He can be really fucking honest when he wants to be. It’s just that he chooses _not to be_ , the majority of the time. Not to himself and certainly not to anyone else.

In the silence of his room, he drowns himself in the sound of the waves outside. Listens to the soft breeze coming through his window, feeling it ghost across his heated skin. Despair tastes like sea salt on his tongue. His fingers ache to bend the ocean to his will, but it doesn’t answer his call. He is empty, cut off from the thing that he truly loves.

Depression eats away at his soul. It drains his energy, makes it hard for him to even want to see the sunlight.

After another wretched spike of pain laces his brain, Tarrlok groans and covers his face. _What did I let happen to me last night? Tarrlok, you old wretch, what have you become?_

Only, Tarrlok is well aware of what happened and just thinking of how he somehow enjoyed it makes him roll over and retch onto the floor. Deep heaves that send searing pain into his lungs. Nothing comes up and he finds himself thinking, _swell, nothing to clean up_.

_I’m pathetic. Just like Dad always thought._

Time passes in his gloomy room. Pain is his companion. His stomach is empty and yet he has no desire to eat. He’s growing weak. Starving to death is such a slow process and Tarrlok wishes he could make up his mind and find a faster way to end it all.

Well. He tried to end them both from the get-go and look how splendid that whole plot turned out.

The front door opens again and feet sound out across the floor. Tarrlok knows Noatak is being loud on purpose, out of some misplaced curtesy to not make Tarrlok feel hunted. He knows Noatak is perfectly capable of being utterly soundless, like a spirit.

Or a murderer.

Those purposefully loud footsteps stop outside his doorway. Silence follows. Tarrlok has his eyes closed still, so he has to imagine the stern look on his brother’s face, the sweat trickling down his neck, blood hot and pumping from exercise.

“What are you still doing in bed, Tarrlok?” Noatak sounds unamused, his Amon tone creeping into the air like a noxious fume.

_I can do as I please, you overgrown tyrant. You sick, sick bastard, twisting us into things we aren’t. This is all your fault, brother._

Instead of answering Noatak’s irritated question, Tarrlok snipes back with his own brand of sulky. “All you do is run; who are you running from?”

The floor creaks and Noatak must be shifting his weight, not liking the blatant deflection. This gives Tarrlok some comfort. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Tarrlok suspects that the real answer is _I’m running from myself and the monster I’ve always been.  
  
_

* * *

  
The boredom is likely part of what is driving Tarrlok to sheer madness.

As hard as he tries, he can’t quite forget the feel of Noatak’s hands on him. Possessive, assured of his dominance, his ownership. The huskiness of his voice, thick with arousal. The way he smells, male and virile.

Tarrlok can’t pretend he doesn’t see the pleasure Noatak gets out of getting Tarrlok _to do something_. The power, the control, it’s all he’s ever wanted. Making Tarrlok commit an act he absolutely doesn’t want to commit gives him a certain glee, a nasty light in his eyes.

Noatak bloodbends Tarrlok, sometimes. Here and there, as Tarrlok studiously pretends they never committed mortal sin together on their very beach. At times, it’s a simple touch, cloying and gentle. Just a reminder of what Noatak can do and that he, in his own twisted way, adores Tarrlok.

Other times, it’s thorny and ragged, full of punishment and force, tasting of blood and sweat as he manipulates Tarrlok’s body. Like the time he catches Tarrlok examining one of the poisonous flora from behind their new home.

The sheer sort of panic that flashes through Tarrlok can’t possibly be his own and it _isn’t_. The horrid muscle spasm that overtakes his body in a vice grip suffocates him, nearly crushes him to bits as the greenery in his hand falls to the floor, his fingers suddenly numb and immovable.

When the abhorrent bloodbending grip finally lets him go, Tarrlok turns to look to his left, panting with exertion, sees his brother looking like a frightened animal, eyes wide and hands outstretched. After a few short seconds, he gets his expression under control, hidden behind his cold mask of indifference.

Tarrlok could almost laugh, because he knows that the one thing his brother can’t abide; a lack of control.

Voice sounding wrecked, Tarrlok says, “For a man who so claims to loathe bending, you certainly have no trouble wielding your power over me, a non-bender.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“Oh.” Now Tarrlok chuckles a little bitterly, feeling an ugly expression shape his face. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

In a flash, Noatak is beside him, hosting him up to his feet with a certain physical violence. They’ve not physically touched in days and Tarrlok feels his heart nearly leave him, knows that Noatak feels it racing hard in his chest.

He won’t acknowledge the fact that he wants those teeth against his jugular, tasting him, making him weak and worthless. Making the nothingness that plagues Tarrlok real. He won’t admit that it was a form of control that felt good and wrong in ways that he wishes he could forget.

Tarrlok wishes he could still look at the beach and not remember his brother on top of him, stroking his swollen cock.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t force my hand, little brother.” Noatak says against his ear, making Tarrlok shudder, memories flooding him, unwanted.

“Perhaps you should control yourself.”

With a snarl, Noatak shoves Tarrlok away from him.  
  


* * *

  
  
Tarrlok finds himself dwelling on his lack of power in the current situation he’s found himself trapped in. He’s at Noatak’s mercy until one of them dies and the years spent apart have made them nearly strangers to each other.

He misses the days when he could pretend they aren’t related, when his denial still had some power to it. Now, it’s impossible. It’s impossible to ignore his father’s eyes looking back at him from Noatak’s face and the cruel twist of those lips that remind him so much of Yakone.

It seems their fates have always been entwined, doomed to live corrupt, miserable lives.

Tarrlok being the abandoned brother and Noatak being the one who ran away. The one who wants to resume their relationship as if time and crime haven’t ever come to pass. He wants Tarrlok to love him, to look up to him, to listen to him, but Tarrlok’s a grown man now and he doesn’t make that easy.

This urge to control and own expresses itself in unhealthy ways. In touches that shouldn’t be. In moments when they are too close, when they share a shower and Tarrlok tries to stare at the tiles when his brother joins him.

The way Tarrlok closes his eyes when the feeling of his brother’s body slides up behind his, naked, hard. A firm hand, reaching around to hold Tarrlok’s cock, just holding it until it becomes firm and aching in his forbidden grasp.

Listening to the sounds Tarrlok makes, desperate, bitten off, as that hand strokes him to completion against the tiles as he begs. The voice that hisses in his ear after, “You’re welcome, _Tarrlok_.”

It’s a humiliation, stinging, precise. His climax feels filthy and wrong. It’s worse that Noatak acts like it’s something Tarrlok _needed_. Like, it’s something Tarrlok should feel grateful for.

The situation only continues to escalate, as situations tend to do between two fiery, stubborn individuals. The day that Noatak catches Tarrlok rinsing blood off of a straight razor, a few bloodied lines on his arm, they’re under the spray of water again, Noatak digging his fingers into Tarrlok’s wounds as Tarrlok grits his teeth in pain, something he relishes because he can _feel_.

When his brother’s member slides between Tarrlok’s thighs, fucking them even as he cruelly strokes Tarrlok’s quickly firming cock, Tarrlok knows they’ve reached a new level of depravity, even for them. Noatak grunts behind him, thrusting in time to his hand stroking Tarrlok, his thick cockhead bumping Tarrlok’s sack with each movement.

In this position, the best they can do is hump, quick and fast, a mockery of the real thing as Noatak claims Tarrlok’s thighs brutally, continues to even after Tarrlok cries out his sticky release, throbbing in Noatak’s hard grasp.

The water is starting to turn cold when Noatak growls against Tarrlok’s spine, his member jumping between Tarrlok’s slick thighs as he spills. Tarrlok watches their mingled seed disappear. Their breathing is rough and Tarrlok doesn’t want to turn around, doesn’t want to face the other man.

The cuts in his flesh are healed, annoyingly enough. As if the crimson lines never existed. 

When Noatak leaves, somehow Tarrlok feels used.

It’s not a pleasant feeling.   
  


* * *

  
  
“Have you ever given it thought that maybe you have a problem?” Tarrlok inquires snidely one evening, after eating the entire plate of food in front of him. His stomach hurts. He’d wanted to starve instead, but Noatak had bloodbent his hands into forcing food into his own mouth, under Noatak’s watchful glare.

Those smug eyes meet his gaze steadily. “Have you ever imagined that perhaps _I know I have a problem_?”  
  
The actions of a power-hungry king. A deity of darkness who thrives on others falling to their knees, kissing his feet. Worshipping the very ground he walks. In the absence of followers, he fights hard to keep the feeling, to channel it from Tarrlok.

Tarrlok, who doesn’t want to worship a single thing.

And that fact probably makes it all the sweeter, poisonously so.  
  


* * *

  
  
One night, the air is humid, thick. Tarrlok’s bed shifts a bit and even through the slight buzz he has from alcohol, his teeth grit in irritation and distaste. “Get out.”

The presence in his bed doesn’t leave. “Do you ever think about it?”

This surprises Tarrlok, the way Noatak sounds vulnerable, if only for a moment. Then, naturally, he wonders if it’s a ploy. A game to get Tarrlok under his thumb somehow, to win his affection again, in any form he can get it.

Tarrlok sleeps in his undershorts, silky and thin, nothing else. An arm snakes around his waist and though his heartrate speeds up, his skin warming, his mind rebels almost instantaneously. This is his bed, his only refuge from the overlord he lives with. The one he hates and hates until he can’t feel anymore. The one that he loves, because he doesn’t know how _not to_.

“Don’t touch me,” Tarrlok snarls, yanking out of Noatak’s grasp. A shiver runs through him, a reminder of that night. The night he can’t quite take out of his thoughts. Of their moments elsewhere, in this very house. But, never in this room.

Never. Too intimate. Private. Unacceptable.

“You enjoy it. I know you do.”

“That’s because you force me to!” Tarrlok hisses, hating the way his face heats. He struggles slightly as strong arms wrap around him once more, trapping him. “I’m not even in control of my own body!”

“I haven’t, not since that night.”

Tarrlok goes still, because it’s the truth and that sends coldness straight into his heart. Noatak is right; he hasn’t bloodbent Tarrlok’s cock, hasn’t forced arousal on him. Sure, he’s forced his…touches upon him…but the arousal has all been Tarrlok’s.

To his everlasting shame.

“You’re making monsters of us.”

“We already were monsters,” Noatak says softly, like they’re discussing the weather and not their wrong, incestuous relationship. His lips ghost across Tarrlok’s naked shoulders, tongue darting out to taste his skin.  
  
“I’m fine playing the villain, little brother. I can be the monster in every story you put together in your head, if that’s what makes you feel at peace.”

It doesn’t put Tarrlok at peace.

The night hours drift across them, letting them doze. Tarrlok isn’t sure when it happens, sometimes between midnight and dawn, accompanied by the soft sway of the sea, but he wakes to the feeling of his cock being stroked and something inside of him, wet, slimy.

Fingers, gently working him open as his cock leaks precum.

His hazy thoughts drift away rather quickly, even as desire clouds his mind. “Noatak,” he mutters sleepily, “What the fuc-”

“It’s better if you keep your mouth shut,” his brother replies, twisting his hand around Tarrlok’s sensitive cockhead, the way he knows he likes. The evidence is in the way Tarrlok gasps, his hips stuttering.

He should say no, Tarrlok should _protest_. Immediately. Right now. Yet, he doesn’t, finds himself too weak to do so, too horny and hungry for a touch he shouldn’t crave.

Tarrlok has never had another man’s fingers inside of him before and he finds the sensation unusual, shocking. He squirms a bit, tries to relax the way Noatak tells him to, listens to his voice as he croons, _shh, it’s okay, you’re doing so good, getting soft and open. You’ll gape for my cock, you’ll see, I’ll take care of you…_

When those fingers leave his body, Tarrlok hates the whine that passes his lips, loathes the smug chuckle that emits from the man spooned up behind him as they lie on their sides. The wet, hard cock that presses against Tarrlok from behind searches insistently, suddenly urgent.

“This isn’t…I can’t…” Tarrlok tries to formulate something intelligent to say, to deny all of this, but he can’t.

Somehow, his brother knows what he’s getting at, because he answers Tarrlok’s unfinished question, “It is. You can.”

After passing his sex between Tarrlok’s cheeks a few times, his round cockhead finally catches on Tarrlok’s loosened entrance. They both gasp loudly, which would have been comical if not for the situation itself. The forbidden, sinful aspect of it has them both on edge, the other aspect being that Noatak is taking something for his own, truly.

And Tarrlok appears to be letting him. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s sick enough to truly _want it_.

After a heartbeat passes, Noatak begins to push inside, Tarrlok’s tight ring of muscle working to accommodate the stretch. It’s unusual, Tarrlok thinks, but not bad, not with the gentle, precise fingering Noatak put into it. The way he made Tarrlok’s limbs feel like jello, soft and needy.

The feeling of a cock entering him sends a rush of crazed emotions through Tarrlok, catching in his throat. This is Noatak, gently fucking into him. What world has he died and fallen into?

“Oh. _Oh_.”

“Yeah,” Noatak grits out. “So full of me. The way you need.”

Tarrlok moans unintelligently, his sex spurting slightly. He's never felt more humiliated, hearing himself, feeling the way his cock is steadily leaking, painting the bed. 

Once again, Tarrlok finds himself wondering if Noatak has done something like this before, with another man. The odd flash of jealousy is unwanted.

When Noatak is fully seated inside of Tarrlok, they both groan again. Noatak has Tarrlok’s hand wrapped around his own dick, helping him touch himself as he keeps his own cock buried inside, unmoving, simply flexing and jumping with arousal.

They spend a few heated, sweaty moments in this fashion, Tarrlok feeling his insides melting and coming undone as his brother helps him masturbate, nibbling his ear and slowly grinding his hips into Tarrlok, so slowly that every moment feels like a thousand stars being lit.

“You’re mine,” he groans, rocking into Tarrlok harder. “You’ve always been mine.”

“Noa-”

“I’ll always _-uhn-_ take care of you.”

Tarrlok feels like a faucet of emotion, dripping out uncontrollably. Broken. Useless. Receiving this horrid parody of love making from someone he shouldn’t.

Noatak is unrelenting. “How does your cock feel?”

Trying to keep his wild thoughts straight, Tarrlok gasps, tugging his own meat, “S-so hard. I want to…I want to-”

“To _fuck_?” Noatak sneers in the rough, cruel tone of his, the one that somehow increases Tarrlok’s arousal tenfold. “Maybe someday I’ll let you, _if you’re good_.”

Tarrlok barely has a moment to even dwell on the image this presents, of Noatak actually letting Tarrlok mount him. The fact that he’s so assured of his own strength and power that he’d give his ass to Tarrlok, to let him be inside. On his hands and knees, Tarrlok pumping into him from behind. He imagines that Noatak would like it rough, hard. He wouldn't want this gentle claiming that he's performing with Tarrlok right now.

The thought has Tarrlok clenching tightly, causing Noatak to hiss in a sort of pleasured agony.

In a moment of aggressive hunger, he pushes Tarrlok on his stomach, pinning him into the bed, his body grinding into his from behind. Tarrlok fists the sheets, grips them tightly as his cock jumps with every thrust, every roll of Noatak’s hips.

The wet sex noises gushing from where they are connected are vile, sickly arousing.

Noatak touches places inside of him, with his cock and with his bending, driving Tarrlok into an ecstasy that likely can never be rivaled by anyone else on the rock they call home.

“Come on,” he hisses, shoving his hips a bit against Tarrlok’s rear, goading him. “Cum from just my cock. That should be all you need.”

Tarrlok shamefully rocks backward, trying to get the cock inside of him to brush the special spot inside that feels spectacular, even as he feels a bloodbending grip stroking along his insides, helping him along.

Noatak bites off a curse, sounding close to his edge. His abdomen is flexing, twitching as he tries to hold his cum back. Tarrlok recognizes the sounds Noatak makes when he’s close to spilling and his stomach heats. His brother always sounds a little deeper, rougher, bitten off, as if trying to remain in pristine control. To show no weakness. To hide how much he enjoys dominating Tarrlok in this depraved manner.

A fingertip brushes across the tip of Tarrlok’s member and Noatak teases, “You’re so wet, like a gir-”

Absurdly, Tarrlok feels his eyes flutter shut, his balls drawing up tightly as he climaxes hard to the sound of his brother’s voice, his humiliatingly crude words. He spills thickly on the sheets, marking them up with seed as he clenches tightly around his brother’s member, causing a chain reaction.

Teeth sink into his shoulder as Noatak’s sex throbs inside of him, gushing his own desire deeper into Tarrlok.

Another crime to write down on their ever growing list.  
  


* * *

  
“I still haven’t forgiven you,” Tarrlok utters to the darkness, the inky black of the room. “For anything.”

His brother is wrapped around him, like a boa constrictor. Limbs entangled with his in a way that should shame him. Tarrlok has fallen too far to even recognize himself. This thing he has with Noatak…it’s a sin. It was sinful even when they were boys.

Noatak has always treated Tarrlok as his own, even then, if not more innocently.

Back then, it was soft hands bandaging Tarrlok’s wounds and caring for Tarrlok’s bruises from their father, gently fixing his hair with a smile. Now, it’s with bloodbending, the feeling of Noatak in Tarrlok’s veins, manipulating him. 

Of his sex thickening against Tarrlok, virile and wanting to fuck again.

That dark chuckle, against Tarrlok’s skin. “Why would I want forgiveness when there’s nothing I need to be forgiven for?”

Oh, that sinking feeling of worthlessness. The humiliation that comes with knowing he's been used and made just a bit less. That he didn't quite hate it.

 _No_ , Tarrlok decides. _He’s no constrictor. He’s a viper._

_Poisonous._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Comments and kudos are appreciated and adored! Happy New Year, loves!
> 
> Holy shit...this chapter is actually kinda vile. Sorry...not sorry? Hope you love it, you animals XD


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